


Grape Juice

by Desert_Sea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Food Kink, Food Porn, Food Sex, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Table Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6024061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desert_Sea/pseuds/Desert_Sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape gets in touch with his feminine side and Hermione Granger gets creative. What will be the outcome? Grape Juice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grapes of Wrath

Severus Snape hitched his stockings out of his arse with one hand and cinched the mouldering stole around his neck with the other as he tottered unsteadily up Diagon Alley.

“Fucking Lupin,” he growled. If that slimy bastard ever pulled a stunt like that again, he would kill him.

“Fuck!” The heel of his shoe caught between two cobblestones and he nearly fell. Yanking it out, he continued winding his way past sleeping shopfronts, jaundiced here and there by the murk of a streetlamp.

He’d been having a perfectly acceptable evening in his chambers, indulging in a firewhisky or three and settling in for a long and productive night of wanking when he had been whisked away, literally, to a foggy room, smelling like Merlin’s armpit, in the middle of Diagon fucking Alley. And, worse than that, who should he find, staring at him like a goose choking on one of its own eggs, but Neville fucking Longbottom.

He was so furious he could barely see straight. Or maybe it was the firewhisky. Whatever it was, he was severely pissed in more ways than one. He straightened the floppy hat that was slipping down over his eyes and squinted into the distance.

 _The Leaky Cauldron_. Yes, that’s what he needed. Another firewhisky to set him straight. He had a long trip home and he would need something to warm his cockles. And perhaps his cock. Actually, dressed like this he’d have to pay more for kink. _Fuck that_. He’d down enough firewhisky to take his cock out of the equation entirely.

Setting his sights on the distant beacon, he flung his purse over his shoulder and set off as fast as his skirt would allow.

Peering into alcoves as he went, he wondered if he’d find Longbottom cowering somewhere. He’d certainly given the knut-job a fright when he’d suddenly appeared in place of the boggart he’d ridikkulused into octogenarian drag, and proceeded to punch him in the face.

It was Lupin’s fault. He’d taken on Longbottom as an apprentice despite Snape’s assurances that the boy had all the intellectual capacity of a flobberworm on weed. And, worse than that, he’d clearly been fucking around with Black Boggart magic.

Boggarts were generally a pretty piss poor version of the real thing. But, if fed something owned by the real thing, they became increasingly more like it. Clearly, Lupin had been attempting to give Longbottom a bit more practice in the ‘real’ world and had likely stolen something of Snape’s for the occasion.

Well, the problem with that, as everyone had just discovered, was that the boggart transformation would sometimes cause a straight physical transposition with the real thing. And hence, his untimely whisking (he’d been about to get his cock out) and his timely face punching.

They would be unlikely to risk such a thing again, but that was little comfort to him as he staggered, in heels (a perfect imitation of his mother), without his wand, and attempted, with a brief but necessary detour, to get back to Hogwarts.

Pulling his hat down against the bleary stares of the drunks meandering outside ‘the Cauldron’ he stumbled inside. The gabble of patrons and smell of stale beer instantly lifted his spirits. Despite the discomfort of the stockings that had ensnared his balls and were looking to sling-shot them out of his bloomers, he knew he’d made the right decision, instantly ordering himself two firewhiskys before homing in on the dark corner that beckoned him to imbibe and perve.

Flopping down heavily on the stale seat, he heard a sharp rip and realised that his velvet skirt wasn’t quite up to accommodating the build of a six-footer. Still, it wasn’t like he’d be wearing it for a second longer than absolutely necessary.

Throwing back the first glass, he grimaced in bitter appreciation of the fiery fluid. The second glass could enjoy a slightly more protracted existence. But only slightly. Drawing a deep breath through his significant nose, he enjoyed the sting of the lingering fumes singeing his nasal hairs. Sometimes it was only pain that made him feel alive. That and . . . _Merlin’s scrotum!_  

A groan escaped him as a denim-clad arse leaned over the bar directly in front of him. Unfortunately he hadn’t had enough of the whisky to stay his cock, which was suffering from attention deficit after the disruption to the evening’s plans, and which could never resist a perfect pair of cheeks. They wiggled. It twitched. Like a spring-loaded trap inside those infernal fucking stockings.

He reached down to try to disentangle his tackle, when the owner of the arse suddenly turned and stumbled toward his table carrying a sloshing pint of something that looked like butter beer. Too busy trying to avoid a butter beer bath, he ducked and the person landed beside him.

“Oh shit! Sorry!” A giggle burst from her. “I saw you were the only other single woman here and thought I’d join you.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed like he’d swallowed a snitch. He’d know that fucking voice anywhere.

“Actually, I shouldn’t assume that you’re single. What I meant was. You’re not here with anyone. So . . . sorry if you aren’t single. And . . . you know . . . I made you feel like you were.”

Snape rolled his eyes. She hadn’t improved. Tediously verbose. Self-indulgent. Perfect arse. _What?_ _Where had that come from?_ He threw back a large gulp of firewhisky.

“Anyway, my name’s Hermione.” She held out a butter beery hand to him, a warm and slightly pissed smile lighting her features.

He should end this now. Just call her an insufferable know-it-all and push her out of the way, disappearing into the night like the giant malodorous bat they all thought he was.

But she continued to smile at him. Her eyes bright with a sort of . . . kind innocence . . . like a rabbit or a deer or something . . . He found himself being drawn into them. Then suddenly shook himself. _Oh no you don’t Bambi fucking Granger!_

But he’d waited too long. The moment to storm out into the quiet solace of the night had passed. There was nothing else for it. He took her hand and wordlessly shook it before necking the rest of the whisky. He needed another . . . bottle.

“I wasn’t going to come out tonight,” she continued, drawing a finger through the spilled remnants on the sticky table. “But I said to myself, ‘You know ‘Mione, you’re never going to meet anyone stuck inside all day. You haven’t seen your friends in months and, even though they’re all married and busy, they _are_ still your friends’.” She nodded as if convincing herself of something. “And, you know, even though I’m not absolutely _desperate_ to meet a guy. Not really. I still could do with a . . . well, you know. Even just some company. But, when I saw you sitting over here quite happily by yourself. I thought, ‘who needs a guy?’ I could just as well spend the night talking to another strong, independent, woman, comfortable in her own skin, just enjoying a drink.” She eyed the two glasses clutched in his hands. “And so I came over. I hope you don’t mind?”

As she peered at him through the gloom, he tried to recede further into the corner like some shy nocturnal animal, dressed in a ridiculous green velvet two piece and being strangled by a fur stole. He dipped his floppy hat further over his eyes before briefly shaking his head. _What else was he supposed to do? Tell her to fuck off? Yes!! His mind screamed._

“Oh, I’m so glad!” She smiled warmly again, taking a large swig of beer and wiping her mouth on her sleeve before allowing her hand to drop casually, disconcertingly, on top of his. He flatted his fingers against the table like a Greco-Roman wrestler, petrified of being turned over.  

But she just continued to talk. Prattle. Lifting her hand up and down, allowing it to flop all over his as part of her rambling gesticulations. _What was she doing?_ He couldn’t focus on her words, on anything really. Although it was probably just more pathetic tales of being lonely and abandoned. . . He frowned. The whisky was going straight to his head but the blood was going straight to his cock. Her hand and its nonchalant gymnastics, twisting and stroking and . . . He had to stop her before his cock lifted the table and started spinning it like a plate.

He gradually edged his hand away, until it was clear of hers and he felt ready to help it escape back to his lap—although, admittedly, there wasn’t a lot of room there for it to hide.

Despite her obvious inebriation, she noticed.

“You have the most beautiful hands,” she crooned, picking one up to study it closely.

He closed his eyes as his stomach clenched. He wondered what she would look like with eight glasses of vomited firewhisky trickling through her gratuitous mane. Still unruly, unkempt. _And what was that stuff spattered through it?_

“Do you play the piano at all? Or the clarinet?”

 _No, of course he didn’t_. The closest thing he played was the clitoris but he wouldn’t be sharing that particular piece of information.

Instead, he satisfied himself with shaking his head in mute rejection, starting to feel agonisingly trapped inside a world of feminine exchange that he didn’t understand and, as a man with needs, desperately didn’t want to be part of. _How the hell was he going to get away?_

“Actually, you have really _young_ hands.” She held one in both of hers like she was admiring a fine bottle of wine. “Can I ask what sort of hand cream you use?”

He barely suppressed a snort. The only hand cream he used was the stuff that came out of his cock. Again, a piece of information to be judiciously excluded from the conversation—if his gormless nods and shakes could be considered conversation. He added a shrug, just to complete the Twat Trifecta.

It didn’t seem to matter. She simply smiled at him. “My hands get so dry these days. It’s the paints I use. I’m an artist. Well . . . trying to be.” She looked shyly down at the table. “I actually work for the Ministry of Magic in a job I couldn’t describe to you because it would put you to sleep. But what I love most in the world is painting.” Her face transformed, alive with her obvious passion for her passion. “I don’t care what the medium is—oils, acrylics, watercolours, pastels. I even use make-up and sometimes . . .” She looked around conspiratorially, “I use food. I paint with it, just squishing it through my fingers. Sometimes I paint it all over my body, just to see what it will look like.”

Her words nibbled away at his resolve like a rat nibbling away at a rope . . . holding up a swinging baby grand piano. _What was this? Some kind of test? A prank? Would Lucius be popping out from around the corner at any moment to point his cane and laugh at how gullible he’d been and how ridiculously hard his cock was?_

“But . . . ” She shrugged. “Painting doesn’t pay the bills and so I have to work. You never know. I could get a break one day—have a successful show. An exhibition somewhere—London or Paris.” Her smile held a tinge of sadness, like it was already a lost hope.

She must be in her early twenties, he thought, hardly time to start giving up on her dreams.

 _Listen to yourself Severus!_ His inner voice piped up. _Giving up on her dreams? Have you lost your fucking mind?_

“Anyway.” She glanced down at her watch. “I should be getting home. It’s getting late and I have work tomorrow. Hopefully, I have a spare hangover cure in the cupboard.” She winked. “It’s been so nice talking to you.” Then she caught herself and gasped, looking mortified. “But I’ve been prattling on so much, I don’t even know your name. I’m Hermione Granger and you’re Mrs . . . ?”

Her brown eyes captured him again. So open and magnetic. They were pulling at him, sucking at him. He tried to resist but he couldn’t . . .

He cleared his throat and croaked out the first thing that came to mind.

“. . . Grape.”

_Merlin’s arsehole! Are you serious? A rhyming fruit? You Twat!_

She beamed. “Mrs Grape! I’ll remember that! Listen, I haven’t had such a fun night in ages. I’d really like to catch up with you again. You are _such_ a good listener. How about I owl you? Can you write down your address for me?” She shoved a beer coaster and pen in front of him.

 _No Severus!_ His mind warned. _Make up something! Anything!_ But his hand scrawled down the address of an abandoned house, not far from his childhood home at Spinners’ end. He could ignore it. He would ignore it. He wouldn’t even think about it.

Hermione gleefully snatched the coaster out of his hand like he’d just presented her with the Quidditch Cup.

“Wonderful! See you soon Mrs Grape!” She leant down and kissed him on the cheek. “You smell wonderful. Like peppermint and vanilla. I could just eat you up!”

 _Oh my fucking God!_ His cock felt like it had just garroted itself.

As she breezed out the front door he realised what that stuff in her hair must have been—paint. Tiny flecks of gold paint. And he simply stared after her. Slumped and drunk. Until he realised what a dumb cunt he was and practically tipped the table over on his haste to get up, to get away.

***

Tottering along the dungeon corridors, he finally landed, heavily, against the door to his chambers. With some effort, he flung the door open and immediately kicked his heels across the room so they landed with dull thuds against the far wall. Peeling off layer after layer of ridiculousness, he finally stood in the middle of the floor, naked, breathing heavily and still rock hard.

He would be putting this night behind him. He would be killing Lupin when he next ran into him and he definitely would not be catching up for another ‘pleasant evening’ with Miss Verbal Diarrhoea.

_No. Fucking. Way._

He squinted at the velvet skirt that now hung off the arm of a chair where he’d thrown it. The tear in the rear seam was huge.

 _Fuck!_ He grimaced. He’d have to sew that up before next time.

 

 


	2. Grape To See You

Severus’s cock woke up before he did. In fact, when he opened one bleary eye to see it staring up at him, he began wishing that he felt even a fraction as perky. Upon returning home, he’d thrown back an indeterminable number of firewhiskys trying, unsuccessfully, to erase all memory of the evening’s events. He’d also forgotten to take his hangover potion and now had a possessed bludger thumping around inside his skull, and a tongue that felt and tasted like a fungus had taken hold. In this state, there was usually only one thing that could make him feel better. Having passed out the previous evening, he’d failed in all attempts to 'flog the flobberworm', so now he relaxed, closed his hand around his deprived shaft . . . and winced.

No, he hadn’t been slipped a knob-rot potion at the Leaky Cauldron. This time it was his hand—the knuckles swollen and sore. Then he remembered. He’d run into Neville Longbottom’s face. Rubbing his pale palms over his bristly cheeks, he felt an unpleasant heaviness in his chest—was it guilt? He wasn’t proud of hitting a former student, even if it was Longbottom. But he’d been caught off-guard and half-cut. He needed to have a word with Lupin. The boy shouldn’t have been left unsupervised.

He sighed heavily. The morning was turning out worse than usual. Which was saying a lot considering the typical level of misery he managed to indulge in on a daily basis. Every day he woke up surprised that he was still alive. And even more surprised that he was still at Hogwarts. Why did they keep him there? Old time’s sake? Too many sterling memories? Dazzling personality?

McGonagall had been good to him. Too good really. He didn’t deserve it. Of course he still taught, he could do that standing on his head. And he could still brew, but not so easily with the DT’s. Firewhisky had become his closest friend and confidant. And it had turned him into a bigger bastard than he’d ever thought possible. No one wanted to share his company. In fact, apart from his drinking buddies, the ‘conversation’ he’d had with the bushy-haired babbler the previous evening was the longest he’d had in . . . well, it had to be . . . years.

And here he was, again. Thinking of her. Surprisingly, he didn’t immediately think about fucking her. He thought about strange things. Like her fingernails, caked with the memories of paintings past. And her eyes, all bright and trusting. Of course, if she’d known it was him, there wouldn’t have been a chance in hell that she’d have spoken to him, kindly or otherwise.

Or touched him. She liked to touch. She was extremely touchy. Maybe that’s why she liked painting—the textures. He imagined her running her fingers through slicks of oils and acrylics and food. _Shit. Not that_. His unresolved erection was already frustratingly painful. He didn’t need to think of . . .

“Severus, are you up?”

 _Fuck!_ He dragged the sheet over himself as Professor McGonagall’s face appeared in his bedroom fireplace.

“Minerva, I’ve asked you on multiple occasions to use the lounge floo,” he sighed, too tired to be angry.

“You didn’t answer the lounge floo so I came to this one,” she replied primly. “You have a class starting in eight minutes. I suggest you ready yourself.”

He nodded and waited. She remained looking at him. “Anything else?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Not especially.”

“Don’t let me keep you then.”

Without replying, she disappeared.

She seemed to quite enjoy catching him out, naked, and often hung around longer than required. He really hoped she didn’t have feelings for him. Although, she had been kinder to him than anyone else in the recent past. Holding his wand casually, he flicked out spells until he was clean, shaved, dressed and had downed a double shot of coffee. His eyes betrayed his poor state of health but no student would ever dare look him in the eye these days, so he needn’t worry.

She’d looked him in the eyes. At least she’d tried to. He’d managed to hide himself away under that ridiculous hat, in the sad and sorry gloom of his watering hole. He suddenly felt ashamed of his life, what he thought he cherished. Which was, admittedly, only the drink.

He wanted to see her again. But she wanted to see Mrs Grape. She liked Mrs Grape. She didn’t like him. Maybe she’d left a message. Most likely she hadn’t. It was only hours before that he’d seen her. Maybe she’d never leave a message.

 _Where had his rational self gone? The voice telling him that he was being a sentimental wanker? That it was fucking ridiculous for him to consider seeing her again? And that the idea of dressing up and pretending to be a woman was the stupidest fucking thing he had ever fucking thought of in his whole sorry fucking life? . . . Ahhh there it was_. He smiled. But in the mirror, mocking him from across the room, all he saw was an ugly grimace. He wondered, then, if he had ever genuinely smiled in his entire life. And if he would ever, truly, smile again.  

***

 _What am I doing? What am I doing? What are you doing? What are you doing you complete dickhead?_ He wasn’t really at war with himself. Every voice in his head agreed that he was fucking insane. She’d left a message. She wanted to see him. Well, not him exactly—someone resembling him. _And he had agreed for fuck’s sake!_ _And he was going right now, this instant, to make a right twat of himself!_

 _What if she recognised him? What if someone else did? Someone like Lucius Malfoy?_ His life wouldn’t be worth living. Actually, it already wasn’t worth living. _Was it possible to have a life that was less worth living than a life that wasn’t worth living?_ Okay, that wasn’t helpful. None of this was helpful. He needed a drink. _Fuck, he needed a drink_. He was already shaking. His pearls were rattling.

They were going to see a movie together. In a muggle cinema. _Wasn’t that already a bit strange? A young woman and an elderly woman going to a movie together?_ Or maybe it wasn’t. It wasn’t a date after all. They were just friends. _Weren’t they?_ He’d said one word to her—‘Grape’. Hardly a strong foundation for any type of relationship.

He rushed along, having transfigured the ridiculous heels into flats—still ridiculous, he found himself skating around on the thin soles with rain sloshing in on every step. He cursed as a gust of wind tried to drag the hat from his head—the one he’d transfigured so that a heavy veil now draped down the front. It looked particularly stupid, and was almost impossible to see through, but he absolutely didn’t want her seeing his face.

Entering the cinema foyer deliberately late, he waited an extra ten minutes before making his way to the theatre door. He’d arranged to meet her inside and knew where she’d be sitting. Waiting. He clenched and unclenched his hands in a nervous gesture from his nervous childhood. _He needed a fucking drink. Then his fucking hands would grow up and behave themselves._ He released a long breath. Now was the time to pull out. To turn around and return to the blustery solitude of the night where he belonged. He might even be able to rescue the few threads of integrity, normalcy and even sanity, that hadn’t already slithered away down the murky plughole of his, less than optimum, mind.

He couldn’t say what made him do it. Was it simply childish attachment—one he’d never really gotten over? Or the pathetic lure of closeness, someone wanting to be with him, near him, even when they didn’t know it was him? Whatever it was, he suddenly took a deep breath, straightened the lapels on his fitted jacket and pushed through the door.

It was fucking dark. He waited for a bright scene in the film before cautiously making his way down the rows. He saw her almost immediately, her riotous hair a perfect barometer for the wild weather. The seat beside her was empty and slowly, carefully, he sank into it.

“You’re here!” she cried in a loud whisper, drawing disapproving looks from those around them. “I was worried the weather would keep you away.”

He gave her what he hoped looked like a smile from beneath the veil.

“I hope you like this movie,” she leant close to his ear, “it’s supposed to be funny.”

His skin prickled with her warm breath and his arm tingled as her soft body pressed against it.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, grasping his hand in both of hers.

He opened his mouth to draw in air. It was too much physical contact. He hadn’t had any willing contact—well, contact he didn’t have to pay for—for so long. He hoped she couldn’t feel him trembling—and this time it wasn’t just for the bottle.

***

He had no idea what the movie was about. She seemed to like it. She laughed a lot and glanced over at him often. He tried to act like he was enjoying it but he mainly just watched her—her skin painted with flickering hues that cast her in a thousand different frames, shadows, contours and angles. She was a moving work of art . . . And he was a cross-dressing old perv. His heart sank and his chest ached every time reality decided to take a dump in his skirted lap.

 _Should he leave early? Just rush out? Make up an excuse—that he had to deal with some sort of old woman emergency? Something about a cat, or a cup of tea, or sensible shoes . . ._  

But the credits were rolling. The movie had finished. And she still held his hand as they stood to leave.

“Let’s grab a cup of tea in the café,” she suggested, tugging on his arm.

While she held him, he would follow.

She hooked her arm through his as they made their way through the foyer, into the adjoining café.

“I didn’t realise how tall you were,” she gazed up at him. “I always wished I was taller growing up. I thought I wanted to be a ballerina,” she said with a rueful grin.

He nodded, although he couldn’t imagine her as a ballerina. They always seemed to have the most perfect hair. Hers might qualify her for a role as a dancing cloud or perhaps some sort of dainty swamp weed. Actually, as he looked at her now, he realised that he couldn’t imagine her with anything other than the freewheeling mop, that often spoke her thoughts before she did. When she was a student, he’d always known from the volume of her hair when she was in a foul mood. He quite enjoyed watching her give the other dunderheads a bollocking. Now she seemed more relaxed. And more lonely. She was clinging to his arm like she didn’t want to let him go.

Guiding them toward a dimly-lit table in the far corner, he pulled a seat out for her and she finally released him. _Is that what a woman would do, pull out another woman’s seat?_ He was getting confused. He couldn’t even really remember what a man would do.  

“Tea?” she asked, shuffling her seat forward and sliding a menu over to peruse it.

He needed coffee but wasn’t prepared to resort to some elaborate game of charades to explain. He was left with taking his seat, nodding again, and wondering how long it would be before he was forced to actually say something.

 _What would he do then?_ He could pretend to be mute. Although he’d already said one word to her which, unfortunately, eliminated that option. He could run away. Or, slightly more dramatically, he could kill himself. There was a pile of forks on a bench nearby. Perhaps he should grab one just in case he was asked a question and needed to stab himself to death to avoid responding.

“You’re very quiet,” Hermione broke into his thoughts.

 _Fuck, here it goes_.

“I like that,” she smiled. “Most people feel the need to talk constantly. To fill in those awkward silences. But you don’t. You always seem so relaxed and content with yourself.”

 _Absolutely. That was him._ So relaxed that he was looking to puncture himself into a pulp so that he didn’t need to open his mouth.  

“I’m afraid I’m one of those people—the talkers,” she continued. “I don’t think I ever used to be this bad, but when you spend all day cooped up in an office or daubing canvases, and rarely get to meet anyone, except at the takeaway shop where no one really wants to talk to you, you start going a bit crazy—getting desperate for conversation. About anything. And the chances of interesting conversation are virtually nil. No one wants to talk about books or ideas or complicated magical theories. Or philosophy. Or science. Or even art.”

He knew exactly what she meant. He’d given up on stimulating conversation years before and certainly his drinking buddies had little to contribute apart from slurred discourse around fucking and hangovers.  

“Although, I haven’t been doing as much painting these past couple of days,” she admitted. “I think I might have pinched a nerve in my back or something because every time I lift my arm it hurts. I tried rubbing the spot but it’s almost impossible to reach.”

She lifted her elbow to point down her back and turned to show him. “Somewhere down there.”

_Why was she showing him?_

“Your hands are so much bigger than mine. And they look stronger. I wondered if you could just give it a quick rub. Would that be okay? I get so unhappy when I can’t paint and I’d hate for it to get worse.”

_Was this another fork stabbing opportunity? Or did he just need to tear out the door, leaving one of his stupid flats behind like Cinderella’s ugly step sister._

She was watching him. Pleadingly.

 _For fuck’s sake!_ Sighing, he shuffled his seat around behind her and proceeded to gently press the muscles down the sides of her vertebrae. Within seconds, after a jolt and a grimace, he had isolated the problem to her upper thoracic spine and began kneading his strong thumbs into the knotted muscles.  

“Oh Gods!” she groaned, melting under his hands as her head pitched forward.

He applied a little more pressure. “That’s it!” she hissed through gritted teeth, breathing heavily through the obvious pain. She closed her eyes as he worked from her spine, up to her neck and across to her shoulder.

“I think I’m obsessed with your hands,” she moaned.

He felt a twitch down below and willed her to stop talking. And stop moaning.

“I used to have a teacher when I was at school who had the most amazing hands.” She groaned as she hit another tender spot. “I’d watch them when he wasn’t looking.”

 _Fucking Lupin, no doubt_. As if he needed another reason to hate the bastard.

“My potions professor. You should have seen him brewing. It was like watching an . . . ow!”

He dug his fingers into her. Trying to make her stop.

“I . . . think that’ll be enough now.” She pulled away and gave an apologetic smile. “It feels a lot better but it’s getting a little tender.”

He sat awkwardly, staring at her, before shuffling his seat in and taking a gulp of the scalding tea, forgetting it wasn’t firewhisky.

“Fuck!”

Hermione jumped. “Wow, you have a really deep voice,” she said, apparently unconcerned by the expletive.

“Cold,” he croaked.

“You have a cold? Oh, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed his hand again. “And here I am dragging you out in this weather. You should have told me. I’d hate for it to get worse.”

He shrugged as his burnt tongue turned unpleasantly fat and floury. 

“Actually,” her face brightened, “I have an excellent cold potion at home. You could come around to my place now and I could give it to you.”

He felt like he might have actually torn a muscle in his haste to shake his head. It was too much. Her eyes, and her moaning, and her soft body, and her clutching hands and her offers. He stood up, needing to leave. To turn and go. _Now!_

But, instead, he suddenly bent over and kissed her hand. It was probably the creepiest thing he had ever done. And for someone who had haunted the dungeons like a giant greasy bat for the past two decades, that was a pretty big call. But his mind no longer knew who he was and he needed to kiss her. He couldn’t look at her as he turned to leave.

“Mrs Grape! Wait!”

But he was out. Gone. Away. The Grape getaway.

 

 


	3. Grape Balls of Fire!

He would definitely _not_ be going clothes shopping with her in Hogsmeade. Absolutely not. It was preposterous. He could never take the risk of being identified. They’d have to go shopping in London instead.

And so he found himself standing on the corner of a busy London Street, waiting impatiently for her. He’d managed to transfigure one of his white shirts into a blouse and wore a robe that he’d transfigured into a light jacket. The skirt was still a problem. He hoped she wouldn’t realise that he’d worn the same one every time. And the stockings? Well, he’d made the mistake of thinking that he could get away with wearing nothing underneath them and currently felt himself uncomfortably cocooned, like a slug in a web.

The thick veil of his hat turned everyone and everything into grey shadows, so he shouldn’t have been surprised that he didn’t notice her until she suddenly grabbed him by the hand.

“Mrs Grape!” She pulled his arm, trying to kiss his cheek, but he stiffened just in time and she caught him on the neck, just above the collar. He couldn’t afford to have her too close to his face, particularly in the bright light of day, in the middle of a London street.

But, as usual, she seemed unperturbed by his odd, stilted and mute antics, chatting away like they were old friends. As she took him by the arm and headed toward her ‘favourite shop’ she told him all about the new painting she had started, visiting her good friends Harry and Ginny and their new baby, an argument she’d had with her landlord, and a variety of other random thoughts that seemed to float through her mind, all by the time they had walked half a block.

“Here it is,” she announced, gazing into the shop window. “I have to tell you why we’re here Mrs Grape.” She turned to him. “I’ve been asked out on a date.”

Severus stiffened.

“It’s a guy from work,” she continued. “He’s asked me out dozens of times and I’ve always said no but,” she sighed, “I figured I wasn’t getting any younger and, you know, he has a good job and, well, I thought ‘What have I got to lose?’”

She shrugged and looked at him expectantly. He couldn’t have spoken even if he wanted to.

Realising that he wasn’t going to respond, she turned toward the door. “So what I really hoped you would do for me, Mrs Grape, is to give me some female advice on a new dress.”

 _Good God!_ He thought he’d be waiting around and carrying bags. Not . . .

Yanking open the door, she dragged him inside so fast that he almost tripped over the step and had to clutch at his hat to stop it from toppling off.

A well-dressed woman instantly breezed over to them. “May I help you?” A practised smile alighted her features.

“Oh yes please,” Hermione nodded excitedly. “I’d like to try on some of your dresses. My friend here is going to help me choose.”

The woman’s smile only faltered slightly when she took in the tall, veiled woman that the pretty young girl was clutching like a security blanket.

The other advantage of the dark veil was that Severus could roll his eyes at will, which he did now, realizing just how much he had fucked up. He had been living in a bizarre delusion since his ungainly escape from the cinema—mooning over her, wanking over her, thinking that they had some sort of relationship. Merlin’s syphilitic scrotum! He’d even stopped drinking. What for? Because she made him want to be a better person? _Oh fuck off! You stupid fucking wanker!_

But they were already standing by the dresses. Row upon row of expensive material resting on hangers. The woman was holding up one after the other and Hermione was pointing at some and dismissing others. It was like he was standing outside of himself, watching some sort of disturbing child’s play, a beautiful young woman unknowingly clutching onto the Beast, the Big Bad Wolf—‘Why Mrs Grape, what a big nose you have’, ‘All the better to smell you with my dear’, ‘And Mrs Grape, what a deep voice you have’, ‘All the better to lie to you with my dear’, ‘And Mrs Grape what the fuck is that in your pants?’

“Mrs Grape!” Hermione cut into his thoughts. “Do you like this one?”

Severus, lost at sea, simply nodded.

“Okay, we’ll try that one on too.” Hermione smiled at the woman.

And so, with the armful of dresses, a shiny mountain of misery, they proceeded to the fitting rooms.

“Mrs Grape, I want you in here with me so I don’t have to keep coming out,” she said, pulling him toward one of the rooms.

“Can we have a chair in here for Mrs Grape, please?” she said to the woman who immediately nodded and bustled off to retrieve one.

 _You have to go! Run away now!_ But how could he explain it to her? He didn’t have to explain it. He just wouldn’t see her again. She didn’t know where he lived. She didn’t even know who he was. His hands started clenching nervously again and Hermione looked up at him, mistaking the gesture for excitement or reassurance.

“I knew you’d love this,” she said. “There’s nothing better than two girls getting together and trying on clothes.”

He only just stifled a groan as the woman returned with a seat and placed it in the corner of their mirrored cubicle.

“Let me know if you need any help,” she smiled, before pulling the curtain closed.

Severus perched on the small chair, glad that he’d brought his clutch purse which he now positioned, strategically, over his lap.

“I think I’ll try this one first. Can you hang on to it for me?” She placed a blue dress on his lap and then started to undress.

He absolutely shouldn’t be there. He shouldn’t be watching. She probably wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or not through the thick veil, but it was completely wrong. If she knew that her former potions professor was currently sitting only a foot or two from her, watching her undress, she would have more than a conniption fit, she would likely hex his balls right off. And so she should.

But he couldn’t seem to look away or close his eyes, as she kicked her shoes into the corner before casually undoing her shirt buttons, top to bottom, revealing a dusky pink satin and lace bra. His lips fell apart and his chest started to heave. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever beheld. Her skin, smooth and creamy, covered a symphony of soft curves and lean muscle in the most glorious tribute to feminine beauty. Dropping her shirt to the ground, she flipped open the button and lowered the zip on her denim jeans before peeling them off. It was done so unselfconsciously, without a glance in the mirror, that it was even more tantalising than if she had been aware and deliberately looking to entice. Her matching satin knickers were partially dragged down by her jeans, revealing half of the soft pale globe of one cheek.

He was hyperventilating. He so wanted to reach out and touch her.

But she absently hitched her knickers back into place, before reaching out for the dress and taking it from his hands, apparently unaware of the tremble.

Slipping the dress on, she asked him to fasten the zip which he did, gently resting his fingers on her back as he slid the zip closed.

She pulled a face in the mirror. “It doesn’t look that good on,” she said, before turning for him to release the zip.

_Doesn’t look that good on? How could anything not look good on that body?_

But that was how the next half hour proceeded. Her trying on dress after dress, him holding, zipping, hooking, buttoning, cinching. At one stage she grasped him by the shoulders while he helped drag a form-fitting number down over her hips. Her breasts were, literally, in his face, jiggling like creamy bowls of panna cotta. His mouth watered as his cock surged and twitched. The whole process had been pure torture for his frantic member which jostled around like a netted animal, trying to escape. Perhaps in the future he might need to consider transfiguring some sort of cock corset?

And then, whilst trying to demonstrate a problem with the hemline on one dress she slipped her foot onto the chair, between his legs. Grazing her warm foot along the underside of his balls.

He gasped. “I agree.” She nodded. “It’s pretty badly made. I won’t be buying this one.”

Then she sighed. “I know which one I like most but, as is always the case, it’s way out of my price range. I think I’ll go with the black one instead. What do you think?”

He knew which one she was talking about, it was a slightly darker pink hue than her underwear and she looked stunning in it. The black one was also lovely. Everything was lovely. She could wear anything or nothing. Preferably nothing. But that was only the opinion of a grizzled old pervy professor and not the young man that she was looking to date. He shouldn’t even have an opinion.

He nodded.

“Thank you so much,” she gave a smile of such appreciation that he felt himself blush. Then she leaned forward, pulled the veil slightly to the side and kissed him. Her soft lips pressing against the corner of his mouth. And he leapt up.

“Are you alright Mrs Grape?” She fell backwards in alarm.

He nodded feverishly before lunging out of the curtained cubicle and rushing out to the clothing racks. Grabbing something that looked big, he rushed back in, ducked his head into the cubicle and pointed to it.

“Oh, you want to try something on too?” Hermione beamed.

He nodded emphatically.

“Excellent!” she cried.

He scanned around for the dressing room furthest from hers, rushed in, threw the top on the ground and grabbed the curtain, hauling it closed before balling it in his fist and holding it against the wall. He didn’t want her coming in. Or that bloody shop assistant. Then, one handed, he wrenched up his skirt to reveal the most dishevelled looking cock he had ever seen. It looked like a masked bandit, about to commit a break and enter. He knew exactly who he would prefer to be breaking and entering but would have to be satisfied with a quick ‘hijacking’.

Yanking his stockings down, he clutched his blotchy shaft and started to stroke it gently. Releasing a long breath, he allowed himself to relax into a rhythm. He was so close already, having been on the edge for so long. All he had to do was conjure those perfect breasts hanging in his face, the cleavage, dark and enticing—and imagine his tongue flicking out, delving between them.

“Uuuuuhhhhh.” He couldn’t help the moan that escaped his lips as his head pitched forward. His grip tightened on his cock as he started pumping it in longer strokes, from the base to the tip. Pre-cum dribbled down from the red hole, it was clearly also desperate to come despite the difficult morning. The head had deepened to a healthier purple and, no doubt would have preferred to be butting against a creamy cervix than being on centre-stage in a gaudy mirror-box, but there weren’t any better options on offer at that moment.

He sped up his practised wrist and felt the tension building in his balls. He thought about that perfect arse, soft and round and . . .

“Unnhhh,” he grunted.

“Mrs Grape? Are you okay?”

She was just outside the cubicle.

“Mmmmm,” he groaned, as his cock strained.

“You don’t sound okay.” He felt her tugging on the curtain.

Then his hair-trigger balls squeezed and he started to come. He grunted as sprays of his seed squirted over the mirror in front of him. Surge after surge of pearlescent release splattered over the highly polished surface.

The curtain jiggled more insistently and then it suddenly jerked open. In one motion he turned, painfully trapped his pulsing cock in the elastic of his stockings and threw down his skirt.

“Mrs Grape,” Hermione’s mouth hung open. “Are you alright?”

He couldn’t speak or look at her.

“What’s that on the mirror? Is that glue?”

It probably wasn’t the right time to suggest ‘hand cream?’

“Oh, it’s sticky!”

She’d obviously touched it. _Fuck_.

“Mrs Grape,” her voice was low and serious. “Did you sneeze?”

He couldn’t answer. He could hardly breathe.

“Have you still got that bad cold and you didn’t tell me?” She sighed. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve had terrible colds in the past and I know how bad they can be.”

“Look at me.” She turned him around. “I know you don’t like talking much but I wish you’d said something. See, I could have given you this.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a pack of tissues. “Here’s one for you.” She handed it to him. “And I’ll clean this up.”

He let it dangle from his fingers, guessing that he probably shouldn’t use it to wipe his cock. Then she proceeded to use another three tissues to clean up the mirror. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of her carefully wiping up the sticky streams of his release. Her face was a picture of concentration, her pink tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of her mouth as she focused on buffing and polishing away the evidence.

“Now, after that, I insist that you come to my house for that cold potion.” She fixed him with a serious frown. “I won’t take no for an answer. And . . . I want to draw you. Those beautiful hands. Please say you’ll let me?”

She gave him that soft, pleading look again. _If you do this I am fucking leaving_. His rational self had clearly had enough. But she’d just handled his come so lovingly. Wasn’t that worth something? _No, you fucking dickhead, she thought it was your snot!_

Snot, come, whatever, he was going.

 

 


	4. In the Grip of the Grape

“I can’t believe you did that.” Hermione stared at him. “You went to all that effort, hiding and sneaking around, just to . . . surprise me?”

He shrugged.

Hermione looked dumbfounded as she lifted the pink dress from its soft tissue wrapping. And he smiled under the veil. While she had been occupied with returning the pile of unwanted dresses and disposing of a large handful of dirty tissues, he had bought her the pink dress. It wasn’t just because he felt bad about her cleaning up after him, he wanted to get it for her because it was her favourite.

_I hope you don’t think this is going to make you her favourite?_

His smile disappeared. Couldn’t he just enjoy one moment of warm fuzzy delusion without his mind needing to snap-kick him in the balls?

“I don’t know what to say.” Hermione looked genuinely overcome, there were unshed tears shimmering in her eyes.

 _Now look what you’ve done_.

“I wish there was something I could do to repay you. Is there anything I can do? Anything?”

He wished she’d stop with that pleading voice. And repeating ‘anything’ over and over. There was a certain cock within earshot that might take that as an invitation to jump into any one of her orifices and shake itself up until it exploded.

Even as his cock nodded its head, Severus shook his.

“Mrs Grape, this is probably the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me.”

She stood from the small table in her tiny flat and shuffled around the corner of it to hug him, her bushy hair rasping against his veil as her warm body pressed into his. He closed his eyes briefly, savouring her closeness and realising that coming here had been yet another mistake.

He didn’t have the physical fortitude to cope with being near her. His cock, popping up like a whac-a-mole every time she looked at him, attested to that. But worse, he no longer had the emotional resilience or, rather, deadening that the bottle had always provided. He was raw and vulnerable and dressed like a fucking old woman. He couldn’t stoop any lower if he had had his nuts stapled to his nipples. Which is pretty much how he felt right now as she crouched before him, her hand resting on his thigh.

“I have something to show you.”

 _Oh fuck, what now?_ He wasn’t sure he could take any more of her. If she revealed a wart on her elbow he would probably spray his stockings.

Taking him by the hand, she led him toward a narrow staircase that ended in, what he imagined, was a loft bedroom.

 _Fuuuuuucccckkkk!_ His inner voice was in ‘I don’t trust this shit’ mode, and he had to will his hands to stop their nervous clenching before they started up.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he frowned, not quite sure of what he was seeing. It was clearly her bedroom, the unmade bed in the middle confirmed that, but the walls were haphazardly hung with dozens of pictures on different sized scraps of paper. All drawings—sketches. Of hands. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, and his sinking stomach told him he wasn’t, they appeared to be his hands.

She sighed. “I’ve been trying to get your hands right from memory but I knew I hadn’t quite captured them. That’s why I wanted you here. Otherwise it was going to drive me nuts.”

 _Drive her nuts?_ He was pretty sure that had already happened. Although in no position, himself, to comment on creepiness, he suddenly had an urgent need to check the stove to see whether she happened to have any bunnies on the boil.   

“You probably think I’m a bit strange.” She turned to him with a weary smile. “I get these unhealthy obsessions.”

Another admission he probably couldn’t afford to comment on, mutely or otherwise.

“In fact, my best friend Ginny, I told you about her earlier remember? Anyway, she took me aside yesterday to basically tell me that my obsessions were the reason they didn’t invite me around much anymore. I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve lived on my own for the past four years with only Crooks for company, or if my art is somehow warping my mind, but Ginny says I seem to have become totally self-obsessed. Which is probably right—I do talk about myself a lot.” She flopped down onto her bed. “She also says I focus on abstract details.” She gestured to the images around her. “Avoiding reality. And that’s why everything seems to be falling apart, including my relationships.”

Severus stared at her, seeing too many painful similarities. Her art was her escape from reality, his was the whisky. They were both punishing themselves with their obsessions, struggling to maintain relationships and clinging to delusions to, ironically, keep sane.  

Her face was pinched with raw pain, deep and visceral. “It feels like if I can get your hands right, if I can get anything right—perfect. Then, I will discover the truth. That it is there, somewhere, in the detail. The finest of detail. And if I can only look hard enough. Be open enough. I will be gifted the secrets. I will see them. And capture them.”

 _Fuck_.

“But maybe that’s the problem.” She grabbed one of the paintbrushes scattered on the bed and tapped it against her knee as the tears fell. “Maybe the truth can’t be deconstructed like that. Maybe I should be looking for the big picture. Connecting the parts to understand the whole. Something I’m not very good at.”

_No! Don’t do it you stupid fucking cunt! You’ll destroy her!_

The hand that had been rising toward his hat, ready to remove it, deviated to her shoulder and squeezed it gently.

She placed her hand on top of his.

“I also told Ginny about you.” She wiped her nose on her other wrist. “She said you sounded weird. And creepy. I tried to explain to her that you are the only one who seems to accept me for who I am. You don’t ask anything of me. You don’t expect me to be different. And are still willing to keep my company even when I do talk about myself. You’re kind. And helpful. And generous.” She gestured to the dress that she’d placed on the bed. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Severus’ eyes stung as he tried to swallow down the quaffle-sized lump in his throat.

“I’m really afraid that I’ll eventually drive you away too.”

Her expression was so forlorn that he wanted to grab her and hold her to his chest.

“And when you kissed my hand so gently I . . . I . . . wanted to . . . kiss you too. I’m so sorry. I know it’s wrong. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Maybe I’m just so lonely.”

The steady stream of tears turned into quiet sobs.

He took the tissue she had given him from his pocket and handed it to her, clean. She reached out, but instead of taking the tissue she grabbed him by the wrist.

He rolled his eyes. _Not the fucking hands again._

_Shit!_

Suddenly she yanked him forward onto the bed and rolled him onto his back. He only just managed to grab his hat with both hands, cramming it onto his head.

Straddling his waist, she quickly wiped her damp face with her hands.

“Mrs Grape.” She looked down at him somewhat apologetically. “I’m not normally like this. But there’s something about you. Something irresistible.”

He pulled the veil down tighter, as she tried to pry his hands away.

“I wish I could see your face.”

He shook his head vigorously.

“I’m sure that you’re beautiful.”

He shook his head even more vigorously.

She gave a watery smile. “There must be parts of you that are beautiful.” Her fingers trailed down to the top button of his shirt and started to undo it.

He clamped his hand there first. She tried to move to the next but he wrenched that out of her grasp.

“Mrs Grape, I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to . . . understand you. And I want you to understand me.”

 _She’ll fucking understand you soon enough_. Severus’ mind was in ‘I fucking told you so’ mode.

She put her hands against his chest and slid them down his blouse toward his abdomen.

“Your body is so . . . hard. Do you work out?”

_Oh my fucking god!_

“It actually feels so good on my . . . “

She started to grind herself against his lower abdomen.

“Mrs Grape, I don’t even know if you have a husband.” She closed her eyes as she leaned back against his knees, continuing to rub herself against him. “I’m so sorry that I’m using you for this. I really hope you can forgive me.”

Her chest was rising and falling as she pushed rhythmically into him, abrading her mound with the rough denim. Faster and deeper.

Suddenly she stopped. Her eyes sprang open.

“Mrs Grape,” she said slowly as her hand slid behind her bottom. “Is that what I think it is?”

_Surprise!_

“Oh thank Merlin.” The look of relief that flooded her face startled him. “That explains so much.” She let out a sigh. “May I?”

_May she? What was it? A teacake? A scone?_

Still clutching the veil, he gave a small nod.

“You won’t regret this,” she said.

_Oh . . . God . . ._

“You see.” She swung her leg over like she was dismounting a horse, and twisted until she was kneeling beside him. “The thing about the last four years is that I haven’t had many partners.” She proceeded to roll him so she could access the buttons on the back of his skirt, flicking them open with one hand. “But I’ve being doing a lot of reading.” She rolled him back and grasped the skirt in both hands. “And watching. And practising.” She suddenly yanked it down in one pull. And there it was. The masked bandit.

“Shit.” She winced empathetically. “That looks painful.”

Gently, she grabbed the elastic of his stockings and gradually worked them down, careful not to cause any more damage to his heavily restrained, almost bloodless, cock. He gave an audible sigh when it was free and she proceeded to flip off his shoes and pull the stockings off his feet.

He was now naked from the waist down, wearing a white blouse, with a veiled hat clamped against his head.

 _No wonder she finds you fucking irresistible_.

And then, cradling him in her warm, soft hands, she knelt between his knees, lowering her mouth, tongue first, over his weeping tip.

 _Shows how much you fucking know_ , he retaliated, before groaning inwardly as his back arched off the bed.

Slowly, methodically, she began by bobbing her head up and down on the end of his cock, dipping her tongue into the slit and licking up the salty promise of more come to come. As she prodded insistently and wiggled around inside it, his abdominal muscles locked and spasmed, pushing out a grunt of intense satisfaction. Closing her lips in an airtight seal around his cock she dipped down further, hooking his frenulum with her tongue on every upward stroke.

_Fuck. She must have been studying sex like it was her N.E.W.T.s._

Meanwhile her hand grasped his shaft, cranking the blood back into it with each stroke until it was fully engorged and her lips were stretched wide, trying to accommodate his new pulsating girth. Her other hand slipped down to his balls, rolling them around expertly between her fingers, stroking the stretchy, pliable skin and squeezing them gently, preparing the contents for ejection.

“Fuck!” He ground out and clutched at her hair, trying to slow her down.

She released him with a pop. “Don’t worry Mrs Grape, I’ve got this.”

 _Oh Fuck. That was so wrong_.

Quickly, efficiently, she stood and kicked off her shoes before pulling her shirt over her head and throwing it to the floor. Seconds later her jeans were off and she was back in that beautiful matching satin and lace underwear.

“Just to make it even, I’ll leave this on.” She nodded down at her breasts before hooking her fingers in her knickers and dragging them down.

He could see the moist hairs clinging to her sex and started to salivate, wishing he could lick the arousal right out of her. Admittedly, that would be difficult through a veil.

She climbed on and immediately straddled him, a hungry look in her eyes as she stared down at his obscured face. “I’d love to watch you come. But I’m just going to have to settle for listening to you.”

And with that she impaled herself, slowly, exquisitely, rocking against his fullness to ease it inch by inch into her tight sheath. She heard him alright!

“Oh . . . Oh Gods!” he moaned, his chest heaving and his one free hand clawing at her thigh.

When she had fully accommodated him, she stilled for a moment before squeezing him as tight as she could with her pelvic floor.

“Merlin!” His pelvis jolted upward again.

“Keep talking to me,” she breathed as she started her unhurried, highly focused, cunt on cock massage, working her muscles (finely honed after years of Pilates) in a grinding upward wave that squeezed and sucked at him like a toothpaste tube.

Not only was her channel impossibly hot and tight, its wet squelches of arousal forced even more blood into his rigidly engorged cock. He gripped her hip with his hand and started, on each of her downward strokes, to thrust up into her.

And her face changed. Each time he rammed into her, a deep moan jolted from her chest. Her breathing turned ragged and her eyes closed. She gripped the hand that gripped her and began moving with greater abandon.

She was so beautiful. Sighs ghosted from her soft engorged lips as her panting increased. He knew that look. She was getting close. And he felt it, deep in her core, the tension clenching at his shaft. Gripping her hip even more tightly he started pulling her down as his cock heaved into her, breaking another sound barrier.

Her moans increased in pitch and she keened in time with her pumping shoulders as his low grunts joined hers in discordant harmony. Reaching down, he slid his thumb between her lips and urgently rubbed at her swollen pink clitoris.

“Unnnhhh,” she called to the ceiling. “That’s so good!”

She rode him, thumping down heavily on his cock so that it jolted her insides. Soon the cascading reverberations had built to breaking point.

“I’m gonna come,” she cried.

But he already knew, he felt her muscles tighten and then explode around his cock, squeezing and milking him in powerful rippling waves as she gasped and rasped over him. As he continued to work her clitoris, a stream of her juices gushed down his pumping cock and he was gone.

“Uuuhhhhhhh,” he groaned as his balls finally ejected their full load through his violently pulsating shaft. Squirting up inside her shuddering channel, he coated her insides before ramming it home with each frenzied thrust. He continued his heavily lubricated pistoning, their juices melting together around him, until he was drained.

She leaned over him, arms on either side of his torso as she tried to catch her breath, her sheath continuing to spasm and drink at his cock, insatiable.

“Mrs Grape,” she murmured between breaths. “You really are full of surprises.”

 _If only she knew just how fucking many. Shut the fuck up!_ He shoved his rational mind to the side, reveling in her sweet juices and desperately clinging on to unreality.

 

 


	5. Grape Minds Think Alike

Severus took a sip of grape juice and congratulated himself on a successful morning’s skirt shopping. He’d found one in black that could be transfigured into a variety of styles. It’d even been marked down. He swirled the ice cubes and took another sip. It wasn’t firewhisky. It wasn’t even alcoholic. But it allowed him to relax into his comfortable seat in the corner of the bar, affording his heart an excited flutter at the prospect of seeing her again that evening.

It’d been four days since he’d last seen, and first fucked, her in her flat and he’d been floating on a cloud of prolonged post-coital bliss ever since. He was practically absent in his classes and aloof in meetings. McGonagall had even accused him of being drunk, which was particularly ironic since he hadn’t touched a drop in nearly three weeks.

He’d managed to creep out of Hermione’s house into the late afternoon sun and immediately thought of returning to lie beside her soft form—a slumbering mermaid with a fan of seaweedy hair. He’d desperately wanted to tell her. To show her the truth behind the veil. But he’d somehow managed to convince himself that she would be far happier not knowing.

Their time together, although built on a sad litany of lies, was as good as anything he’d ever experienced. He didn’t want to risk ruining it with reality. His rational self sat petulant, in the corner of his mind, rarely bothering to speak. But he was relieved for the peace. In fact, he was in a better place now than he’d been in for a very long time.

“Professor Snape?”

_What the fuck??_

He jerked around and his throat closed over.

It was Draco Malfoy.

“I almost didn’t recognise you in that outfit,” Draco chuckled. “Don’t get up.” He placed a firm hand on Severus’ shoulder.

Severus sat, stunned, as the colour rapidly drained from his withering world.

Draco flopped down on the seat beside him, a smirk on his pale face. “My father said you’d be here.”

Severus couldn’t speak, his hand trembling as he returned the grape juice to its coaster.

“He’s been following you since he spotted you in the Leaky Cauldron a few weeks ago—dressed in some sort of old lady get-up. I couldn’t believe it when he told me. Especially when he said you’d been meeting up with a certain former student.” Draco lifted an eyebrow. “So I thought I’d come and see it for myself.”

The entirety of what he was hit Severus right then. He sat mute, ashamed.

“Of course I’m pretty high up at the Ministry of Magic now and there are plenty of people who would be very interested in knowing what Professor Severus Snape gets up to in his spare time. Word would get around very quickly. But then again, the Daily Prophet might be a better alternative?”

Severus couldn’t take it any longer. “What do you want?” he snarled.

Draco leaned forward. “I want to know what you’re doing and why,” he said. “If I believe you and you make it good, I might even ask my father to keep this little secret just between the three of us.”

Severus was silent.

“Take off your hat,” ordered Draco, the smirk falling from his face.

Severus waited, in agony. “I’m in a public . . . “

“Take it off. Now.”

Severus paused another moment before slowly raising his hand and removing the hat and veil, dropping them onto the ground beside him before crossing his arms.

Draco slipped back in his seat, appraising him. “Why?”

Severus shrugged. “Why do we do anything?”

“To get laid?”

Severus stared at him a long while. “Something like that.”

“Unusual.” Draco lifted his chin. “Dressing like an old woman wouldn’t have been my personal choice of seduction technique.”

Severus wanted to punch him in the smirking face. “It was circumstance. Synchronicity or something." He shook his head in annoyance. "It wasn’t planned. Once done, it just became difficult to undo.”

Draco reached over and grabbed the glass of grape juice, taking a large gulp.

“So Granger likes old lady kink does she?” he asked, sliding the glass back onto the table.

Severus sighed, his frown deepening. “No. She . . . “ He shook his head.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you telling me she doesn’t know? That she hasn’t worked it out yet?”

Severus closed his eyes, trying to block out the world and everything in it.

“Your outfit’s about as convincing as a badger wrapped in a curtain," Draco scoffed. "So have you fucked her yet?”

Severus’ silence answered the question.

“And she still doesn’t know?”

Severus remained mute. There was no good answer.

“What do you think she’s going to do when she finds out? Hex your nuts off?”

“Most likely.”

Draco gave a low whistle. “I wouldn’t want to be in your skirt.”

_Smarmy fuck._

There was a long pause.

“So are you going to see her again?”

“Tonight.” Severus fixed his black eyes on the younger man. His wand was in his handbag but, no doubt, Draco’s was closer. And what would Lucius do if he hexed his son? It wouldn’t be worth it.

“Do you wank over her?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

“I doubt you’ve had your hand off it in three weeks.”

 _Pretty accurate_.  

Severus sighed, uncrossed his arms and made to get up. “I have things to do Draco. So if you’ve finished interrogating me about my private life, I think I’ll leave now.”

“Not yet.” There was a hard edge to Draco’s voice as he clamped his hand over Severus’. “I said if you make it good, I’ll let you go.”

Severus was rapidly losing patience, but he didn’t have a lot of power or choice.

“I want to hear your best wank fantasy,” Draco said, his voice dropping low. “All the details. And it needs to be good enough for me to see it.”

 _You slimy little bastard_.

“And while you tell me, I’m going to have a little bit of fun of my own.” He looked around the almost empty bar before reaching down and releasing his own semi-erect cock from his trousers, facing Severus.

“I’m ready when you are,” he smirked, grasping the base of his shaft.

Severus’ mouth twisted with fury. He could make a lunge for his ferrety balls and squeeze them into a pulp, but then he was left with the problem of his father. And his father could be a right cunt.

He waited, considering his options and then, with a deep sigh, started.

“She’s an artist.” His rich voice cut through the background music, reaching Draco who was already starting to stroke himself under the table. “And she paints with all sorts of things. But one particular medium she told me about was food. So sometimes I think about her lying naked on a table. A dining table. I have a bowl of ice-cream, some hot chocolate sauce and a can of whipped cream.”

Draco’s breathing deepened and the hand around his cock squeezed, moving in longer strokes.

“First, I start off by scooping up a handful of ice-cream and smearing it over her full breasts. Her nipples harden immediately and she . . . moans.” He swallowed. “I dip my creamy fingers into her mouth and she sucks and licks them as I lower my lips over each of her nipples. The warmth of my mouth contrasts with the cold of the ice-cream, making the blood suddenly flood into those nubs, giving her an intense jolt of . . . pleasure.”

Draco’s face contorts as Severus’ voice seems to go directly to his cock.

“I suck and lick and roll her nipples until they are rock hard again. Then I take the hot chocolate sauce and dribble it onto them, all over her breasts, down her stomach and let it trickle into the slit between her spread legs. It slides between her lips, coating them and making her writhe on the table in a mixture of pain and ecstasy. Then I take the can of whipped cream and spray a thick trail over the sauce, fluffing it across her breasts and stomach but most of it I spray over her pussy lips and down below.”

“Her ass?” Draco panted.

Severus closed his eyes and nodded, swallowing again.

“Then I start eating. I slowly lap up the sauce and cream from around her nipples, licking at them with the tip of my tongue, before trailing down her stomach and dipping into her bellybutton to dig out the creamy pool of chocolate there. She’s got her hands in my hair and she’s trying to grind into me. I keep trailing lower, licking through the chocolate in her pubic hair. Down, down until I get to the creamy pile around her pussy and I just bury my face in it, spreading it everywhere. I lap and suck at her creamy, chocolately flesh and each time I delve in, I suck on her clit and she cries out and thrusts up into me. My tongue slides inside her cunt and I taste her juices that are already mixing with the cream that’s up there. I dive in deeper and deeper to get at everything inside her. I have to twist and lick from all angles and she groans and cries out that she needs to come. I lick and suck on her labia before moving down past her pussy down to her . . . anus which is dripping with chocolate and juices and melted cream. And I stick my tongue inside her and she cries out and grinds her pussy into my face until I can hardly breathe. But I keep delving into her hole and then push two fingers inside her pussy. She’s so close by then that all I need to do is rub her g-spot as I tongue-fuck her other hole and she comes. She squeezes and pulses around my fingers and gushes out more cream and juice onto my tongue. And I just lick it . . .”

Draco suddenly groaned and snatched up a napkin on the table, pumping his shuddering cock into it as his head pitched forward. His chest heaved as he continued to crank his pulsing shaft, draining the last sticky drops of come into the cloth. Then he sat, staring at Severus for a few ragged moments before folding his wilting member back into his trousers.

Reaching out, he took one of Severus’ hands and folded the napkin into it. “Thank you.”

Severus frowned as Draco stood up and leaned toward him.

_What was he going to do? Head-butt him?_

But he kept coming until his lips were suddenly locked onto his.

_What the fuck??_

Grabbing the younger man by the shoulders, Severus went to push him backwards but suddenly the form beneath his hands started to twist and writhe, contorting and shrinking.

_Oh Gods! Polyjuice!_

Standing before him was Hermione. A small smile on her lips. “I guess now we’re even.”

 

 


	6. Be Not Afraid of Grapeness

“How stupid did you think I was?” Hermione flicked the pencil rubbings onto the bedspread. “Can you tug it a bit more please? It’s looking a bit wilty.”

Severus gave his cock a few more strokes as he lay on the bed, naked, posing for her.

“Better.” She stared intently at his erect member before continuing to sketch in long fluid strokes on her art pad.

“I didn’t say I thought you were stupid,” he responded, propping his head up with one hand.

“You didn’t say anything at all.”

Severus had suspected this conversation would proceed in a decidedly awkward fashion. Although it had been somewhat softened by the fact that they’d already engaged in a few pleasant recreational activities between her, no doubt, intensely self-satisfied polyjuice performance and the current furious cock-sketching episode.

He hadn’t even had time to get over the shock of Draco’s disappearance ( _thank fucking Merlin)_ before she had straddled his lap and proceeded to snog him senseless. Deciding that it was an indication that she’d probably forgiven him and still in too much shock to decide if he’d forgiven her, he joined in with gusto. And they may have continued lapping, sucking and devouring each other’s faces long into the afternoon if the bartender hadn’t helpfully suggested, “Maybe you and your mother should get a room?”

Without a word, Hermione dragged Severus off his seat and they were out the door, a few pointed glares thrown at the bar staff, before apparating from a dark alley back to her flat.

The previously innocent dining table, sullied by Severus’ food and fucking fantasy, stood no chance when they tumbled through the door in a tangled web of veils and stockings. Breathing heavily, Hermione flicked her wand and removed Severus’ clothing, disintegrating each piece in a satisfying shower of velveteen confetti, until he stood completely naked, his lean, muscular body a welcome addition to her miserly flat. In response, he simply lifted her onto his hips and carried her to the table, laying her down gently, before using his own wand to tug off and disintegrate her Draco-sized T-shirt and jeans.

Then, with a sigh, he bent over her and buried his face in her cleavage, inhaling deeply as if he had been waiting to sample that crevice for far too long.

“Can you just fuck me?” she murmured into the top of his head.

He halted his cleavage indulgence and looked up at her, her lips were full and swollen from their snogging and her furrowed brow told him she was clearly desperate to be filled. He shrugged and stood up.

“And I don’t want to see that fucking shrug ever again,” she huffed as she pulled off her bra and knickers. “Now I know you can talk, I want you using your mouth.”

_She is one feisty witch. You never did check that stove did you?_

“I would,” he replied silkily. “But I’m afraid it’s full.” He suddenly engulfed one breast with his lips.

“That’s . . . uuuhhhh . . . perfectly . . . acceptable.” She winced with pleasure as his hand slid up her inner thigh and his thumb stuttered across her lips, meeting her clitoris head on.

“Merlin!” she cried, bucking against him.

He released the nipple and nuzzled his way up her neck to her cheek. “I thought you wanted me to just . . . fuck . . . you.” He rumbled, sliding his tongue into her ear.

Her skin and hair prickled. “Unnhh. Just keep . . . doing . . . that . . .”

He grinned as he lapped at her earlobe, sliding a languorous digit along the spreading petals of her pussy before slipping it down to sample the warm liquid invitation dripping out of her opening. She dragged in noisy breaths as he slotted a second finger in next to the first and thrust inside her, rhythmically exploring the slick fleshy walls that suctioned around him.

His cock was dancing about impatiently, looking for an entry point, but he continued to pump into her, his knuckles rolling against her perineum and his thumb nudging into her clit with each thrust.

“Uuuhhhh,” she groaned. “ _Now_ fuck me. . . Please.”

 _So she does have some manners_.

Removing his fingers with a wet, sucking sound, he rubbed them over the shaft and head of his engorged cock, mixing her juices with his precum, more for show than necessity—she’d made plenty of lubricant for the both of them.

She was panting as he lifted her ankles onto his shoulders and dragged her cheeks to the edge of the table, lining himself up with her swollen opening. He introduced his smooth glans to the glisten of her pussy and even that contact was enough to have his abdomen clenching with the promise of her wet heat.  

Bracing his legs apart, he pushed forward, his head disappearing inside her, but then halting against the tightness of her clenching walls. She was grunting breathily with the fullness of his intrusion as she tried to accommodate him. Gradually, he arched back out of her before surging forward again, her juices paving the way for him to slide in a little further like a penguin on ice. Thrust by thrust he worked his way into her before coming to rest, cocooned inside her slick channel.

Her neck was arched and her eyes shuttered. She looked drunk and he was glad now, more than ever, that he wasn’t so that he could finally experience the fullness of the blissfully sensate experience that now enveloped him.  

Pushing his chest down toward her, her knees buckled against him, spreading her legs wider and forcing his cock to rub hard and deep into her.

“Fuck!”

 _I will indeed_.

And he did. Slowly at first, he rocked his hips gently backward and forward, keeping his cock deep and hollowing her out in preparation for the full length of his driving shaft. She clutched his slender hip with one hand and his wrist, locked against the edge of the table, with the other as she moaned with each thump into her cervix.  

Then he began to lengthen his strokes, pulling out almost fully before slamming back into her.

“Uuuhhhh,” she cried out and dug her nails into his hip, helping to pull him into her. “I think I’m . . . obsessed with your . . . unnhhh . . . cock too.”

And that drove him up another gear. His mouth hung open as he sucked in air to drive his pistoning shaft. Her channel was closing in around him despite his solid reaming and he knew she was getting close. Pushing down against her, he pressed her knees out further before pulling her backside off the table and letting it hang lower so he could thrust even deeper.

Hermione’s eyes rolled back and her breath caught in her chest. Holding her up with one hand hooked between her cheeks, he pushed his thumb between their squeezing bodies, down to her clitoris where he jiggled it insistently.

She finally found her voice, “Oh Gods!” Before she came spectacularly, her suspended backside bucking around in mid-air as her legs jerked against him and her fingers clawed helplessly at the table.

Her cries were raw and abandoned as her pussy squeezed at his shaft in clenching waves, sucking the resolve from him and drawing out a sharp hiss in his desperate struggle for control. Her sheath convulsed repeatedly, buffeting his rigid member as it continued to pump. A groan of surrender rose from his chest as, finally, the frantic pulsing of her channel spread to his balls, which shuddered and spasmed, spraying his seed in hot creamy jets deep inside her.

She was still keening with each breath as he jerked and squirted his last shots of come into her before collapsing on the floor, her legs wrapped around his waist and her pussy still clamped onto his wilting member.

 

“So when did you work it out?” Severus tugged at his cock again, remembering the earlier feeling of holding her against his chest, their hearts beating together furiously.

“I’m not going to tell you.” Hermione continued to shade in the rigid corona of his cock. “But I will say this—you weren’t particularly convincing.”

He was about to shrug but stopped himself just in time.

She had clearly moved on from her hand obsession. The dozen or so cock images now scattered about the room told him that at least part of him, was probably going to be a subject of interest for a little while longer.

“I’m assuming that you work with Draco.”

Hermione continued focusing on her drawing as she nodded.

“Was he the one who asked you out?”

_Are you trying to fuck this up?_

She blew a stray curl out of her face. “I don’t think you’re in any position to try to delve any further into my private life, do you?”

He paused before continuing. “I just thought you must know him quite well. Your . . . imitation . . . was reasonably convincing.”

“Reasonably? At one point I thought I’d have to check that you were wearing your incontinence pad.”

Severus clenched his jaw, only just avoiding a smirk. He found this new Hermione particularly amusing, even if it was at his own expense.

He watched as her deft hands caressed the pencil into his most intimate of openings. It looked much better in grey lead. And with an artist’s interpretation.

But he couldn’t let the conversation go. “You did play the dickhead surprisingly well,” he said drily.

“You don’t do a dickhead too badly yourself,” she countered without a second’s hesitation.

He snorted. He was having increasingly fewer legs to stand on.

“So . . . .” He tugged his cock again—the current discussion was clearly turning it even more ‘wilty’. “I guess all of those tears of appreciation were part of the performance too?”

Hermione stopped sketching and fixed him with a look. Pushing the pad and pencil to the side, she wriggled over so that she was facing him, lying on her side, her nose only inches from his.

“I have spent four years being fucked around by men and their agendas,” she responded, her voice low and even. “And just when I think I’m getting my life together, my bastard of a potions professor turns up, dressed as a woman, clearly interested, and I begin to wonder if there might something seriously wrong with me.”

Severus watched forlornly as he continued to wilt, a poignant externalisation of his inner world.

“And sadly enough, no, those tears weren’t part of the performance. I felt sorry for myself and I also felt sorry for you. That you would be desperate enough to go to those lengths to see me. I meant every word I said. You are kind and helpful and generous. But you’re also fucked up. And so am I. Look at these cocks everywhere!” She gestured around them.

“I love your hands and your voice and your cock and your fucking. But mostly I enjoy your company. Holding your hand. Talking to you. And now sketching you. I needed to know that you weren’t just a psycho—that you actually liked me and so I got Draco to help me with the polyjuice. He didn’t know that I actually took some of his hair, nor that I intended to be him. And Ginny helped coach me. She’s amazing . . . a total bitch. Even worse than I am. I would have been far nastier if I’d done everything she suggested.”

“Charming,” he muttered, raising a dispirited eyebrow as he looked down at the bedspread between them.

 “Severus don’t you see?” She put her hand on his cheek, lifting his face to hers. “I know you now. I know your secrets, your shame, your insecurities and even your fantasies. And I’m still here.”

He looked into her shining brown eyes, letting the meaning of her words sink in. Her eyes hadn’t changed since the first time he’d seen them three weeks before. The kindness and openness was still there. He’d just forgotten, with the desperate sense that he needed to deceive her in order to be accepted, just how fucking smart she was.

“I want us to do your fantasy,” she whispered to him as she closed the distance between their lips. “Tomorrow.”

And suddenly both his inner world, and his cock, were looking up. In fact, he couldn’t imagine either succumbing to a fit of ‘wiltiness’—at least for the next twenty-four hours.

 

 


	7. The Grapest Love of All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for taking the time to read and chat to me about this quirky little number. I hope you got a laugh out of it if nothing else. All final thoughts appreciated. DSx

“You must be hungry.” The girl behind the checkout smiled at him as she packed the tub of ice-cream, jar of chocolate sauce and can of whipped cream into a bag.

“Indeed.” He responded with what felt like a genuine smile. When had that happened? Smiling?

She raised an eyebrow as she handed him the bag.

_She knows you’re going to be eating that out of someone’s pussy._

_Perhaps she’s imagining me eating it out of hers._ That shut his rational mind up. It seemed to have trouble insulting him when he refused to be ashamed.

With a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips, he apparated to Hermione’s flat and found her inside, lying on a large piece of white canvas in the middle of the floor.

“Performance art?” he inquired as he slid the groceries onto the table. “Let me guess - ‘Shrouded Tumbleweed’? ‘Woman Rolling in Sheet’?”

She smirked at the ceiling. “No, this one is going to be more like: ‘Man and Woman enjoying an incredibly messy afternoon of tea and sex’.”

He approached her, already unbuttoning his coat. “I’ve never been much of an artist,” he admitted, kicking off his boots. “But I’ll give it a go—for art’s sake.”

She grinned as she unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them over her hips, collecting her knickers and socks on the way, before tossing them all aside. Sitting up, she slid off her shirt and threw it in the pile. She hadn’t even bothered with a bra—there was only one important thing planned for the day.

Severus stepped out of his trousers and stood over her, cock already on high alert.

“Have I told you how much I love your dick,” she breathed, watching it twitch in response.

“Once or twice,” he muttered.

“Have I also told you how much I love cream horns?”

He snorted. It didn’t take a genius to work out where this was going. “Yes. I believe that was after I told you how partial I am to an ice-cream sandwich.”

She smiled openly at him before slowly leaning forward and licking the pre-cum from the tip of his knob.

She looked up at him as she licked her lips. “Not a bad drop.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” His voice was low and gravelly as he stepped in closer to her.

Grasping his silky shaft, she stroked it gently. “I’m glad to hear it, as this art work is going to need everything . . . you’ve . . . got.”

He sighed as his chest inflated with a mixture of excitement and desire.

“But first.” She stopped mid-stroke. “We’re going to need supplies.”

Using his hand, and partly his cock, to pull herself up, she retrieved food items from the fridge and table, placing them around the canvas. Then she collected his supplies from the bag and set them beside the others. Finally, she went to a cupboard and returned with a bottle of red wine.

“I thought we could share this?”

Severus’ mouth immediately flooded with saliva at the prospect, but he shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t drink.”

Her eyebrows lifted momentarily before she smiled. “Then neither will I.”

Placing the bottle on the table, she led him by the hand onto the canvas.

“Now we both know you’re not very good at cleaning up after yourself.” A knowing glint danced in her eyes. “But on this occasion that’s perfectly acceptable.” She grasped both of his hands. “I want you to be as messy as possible. To cover this entire thing. We’re painting what comes from within . . . in every sense.”

Her mock solemnity and blatant insinuations had him smiling again. And this time he didn’t try to stop it.  

“You can start.” She released his hands and watched with interest as if his choice of medium and method of application were important to her.

Severus eyed the items around them and settled upon an enticing mound of fresh raspberries. He couldn’t imagine anything more vibrant against her creamy skin. Crouching down, he picked up the bowl and scooped out a handful before dropping a pile into his mouth and gliding the rest down her warm back. Rubbing them against her skin, he held her to him while he lowered his mouth to hers and crushed the ripe fruit between their lips, juice dribbling down their chins and splashing the canvas with scarlet.

They licked the raspberry flesh from each other’s faces as he grabbed another handful and crushed it between his fingers, rubbing a liberal smear over one of her breasts and trailing it down her abdomen in a gaudy sash before allowing the pulpy drops to trickle from his fingers in an arc around his feet. Hermione’s head tilted as she watched the pattern evolve and Severus could tell that this was just as important to her as a creative process, as it was a sexual encounter.

“Your turn,” he murmured, his voice reverberating through her chest.

Crushing further raspberries underfoot, she picked up a shivering bowl of dark purple jelly. Scooping out a handful she pressed it against his chest, allowing it to squeeze between her fingers and spatter in glistening lumps over the canvas between them.

The next handful she held under his chin. “I believe you’re particularly fond of grape?”

Before he could respond, she smeared it over his mouth. His lips parted and he swallowed what was pressed between them, before engulfing her fingers and sucking them hard into his mouth. She caught her breath.

“I’ll be even more impressed if you can do that with . . . my . . . grape,” she murmured, her eyelids sinking lower over her dilated pupils.

His tongue suddenly flicked out between her fingers and laved up between them.

“Fuck,” she moaned, leaning against him. “I’m already painting my own thighs and we’ve barely even started.”

Scooping another handful from the bowl, she rubbed the purple jelly down his clenching abdomen before sliding a mound over his cock, letting it drip over the sides onto the canvas.

The cool slickness of it was surprisingly pleasant and became even moreso when she knelt down and began to lick a path through the glistening purple coating. Working her way across the top of his cock, she licking around the edges before continuing along the rough seam on the underside. She finished by engulfing his head and sucking on it, licking all remnants of grape from around the corona with a firm swirl of her tongue.

He grasped one of her cheeks with raspberry-coated fingers and gently placed the other on the back of her head as she bobbed and sucked. A deep groan escaped his lips as extreme visual and sensual pleasure crashed together inside him and he realised that he was going to have to prise her away soon if he was going to be doing any painting that wasn’t simply on the insides of her throat.

Grasping her chin, he gently pressed his thumb into the corner of her mouth to break the seal. She finally opened her eyes from her almost hypnotic trance and pulled back to let his red, glistening member pop free.

He joined her on his knees before leaning her backwards, an arm behind her for support, until she was lying flat on the canvas, jelly and raspberries squelching under her bare skin. Reaching over, he grabbed a mango from another bowl, tearing off the skin with his teeth and dropping it onto the canvas before biting into the soft, thick flesh and fusing his mouth with hers so they could both devour it with writhing tongues.

The second bite he held in his mouth. Sliding down her body, he sucked one nipple in beside the soft fruit. Working with this tongue and teeth, he pressed and rubbed the flesh against her sensitive nub, causing her to moan and delve her sticky fingers into his hair, wriggling against the canvas. When he gave her other nipple a mouthful, thin rivulets of mango juice and saliva ran down her skin, pooling beneath her.

Throwing the remaining mango aside, he grabbed a banana and broke it in half, pulling out the flesh and placing it between his lips with the smooth end sticking out. She made to bite at it but he pulled away with a small shake of his head, before slithering back down her body. He trailed the tip of the banana lightly between her lips, over her clit and then pushed it down to her dripping opening where he rubbed it about in her juices before taking bite after bite until his mouth was lapping and licking and swallowing a heady mixture of banana and arousal.

She bucked against him with each bite and continued to clutch his locks, groaning with each of his intrusions into her hole. Then suddenly, grasping him tightly between her thighs, she flipped him over like a wrestler.

“Wriggle up here Banana-man.” Her voice was hoarse with desire.

Pushing with his feet, he slid along the canvas, fruit and jelly squishing beneath him, until he was face to face with her and she was straddling his waist.

“As much as I love you au naturel. I think I’m going to have to add a few . . . toppings.”

Reaching for another bowl, she scooped up a mixture of blueberries and strawberries, squeezing them in her fists before smearing them over his pale, muscular torso. Flicking the flesh onto the canvas she grabbed more and rubbed it behind her, liberally coating his his thighs.

Then she picked up a bowl of cold custard and proceeded to pour it all over him before lying flat against his stomach and squeezing their bodies together. Locking her lips on his, she proceeded to snog him as they rolled over the canvas, their bodies smearing and spreading fruit, juice, custard and jelly in writhing waves.

When they finally came up for air, Severus reached for the tub of ice-cream. “I think this might be melting.”

“It’s going to be melting a whole lot more where it’s going.”

Hermione took the tub from him, flipped off the lid and dug into it with her fingers. Without breaking eye-contact she trailed it lightly down her stomach until she reached her mound where she spread her thighs and wiped it up into her snatch.

“I want to see how far that Slytherin tongue can reach,” she said before crawling up his body, ice-cream dripping from her pussy until she straddled his face.  

“Your ice-cream sandwich,” she murmured as she lowered herself down onto his mouth.

Hooking his arms around her thighs, he enacted his ice-cream fantasy to the letter until she was so close to coming that she had to put her hands on either side of his head and hold him still.

Her eyes were closed and she was panting, willing herself back from the edge.

Finally, she could speak. “I want us to come on this canvas together. Can you make me squirt?”

“Of course.”

She smiled and wriggled down to lap the ice-cream and arousal from his lips and face.

“Have I told you how much I love your tongue?” she whispered as she licked.

“I am not posing for tongue pictures.” He spoke into her open mouth and her laughter burst back into his.

Reaching for her wand, she unscrewed the jar of chocolate sauce and cast a heating spell until it was runny but not uncomfortable to touch. Turning around so she was straddling him in the opposite direction, she proceeded to drizzle the heated sauce over his cock.

He grunted as the slick warmth coated him. Then she grabbed the can of cream and fluffed it around his balls, turning his cock into a chocolate sundae.

“Okay your turn.” She handed the sauce and cream to him before rolling them both over so that his cock was dangling above her mouth and he was looking down into her dripping pussy. He poured the chocolate sauce liberally over her slit, letting it run down through her crack, before creaming it up with squirts from the can.

Before he’d even finished, he felt her grab his cheeks and pull them down toward her, followed by the sensation of his hot chocolate cock delving into her eager mouth. With a groan, he pushed her legs apart and immediately buried his face in the cream pie he’d just created, feasting hungrily on the exquisite fleshy morsels that he discovered within. He paid particular attention to her ‘grape’, sucking on and swirling around it until she was crying out for mercy.

 _Be careful what you wish for_.

As he worked his way down to her flooded opening, she was given better access to his balls and began licking the cream from them as she pumped his shaft.

 _Merlin! That felt too good_.

His hips were thrusting of their own accord and he clenched his buttocks to try to control them as his tongue delved deep inside her, revelling in the food tour of her body.

Pulling her knees up and spreading her wider, he licked down from her pussy to her perineum before flicking his tongue into the tight ring of muscle below. Meanwhile, she sucked an entire testicle into her mouth.

They grunted and moaned into their respective organs, trying to focus on the task before them while the tension below was reaching breaking point.

He could feel his testicles wanting to blow and so shifted back so that she could take his cock into her mouth again, while he focused on sucking her clit and pushing two fingers up inside her, rubbing and jiggling against her front wall, looking to eject as much of her juice as possible. He used the index finger of his other hand to prod gently into her anus, knowing that would likely prolong her orgasm.  

“Uunnnhhhh,” she cried as his rubbing and prodding triggered an explosive orgasm that caused her entire body to spasm and her channel to erupt around his fingers, ejecting squirt after squirt of juices onto the canvas as he continued to thrust and suck at her.

And then he was there. Releasing her clit from his lips he grunted, “I’m coming!” Before she directed his cock away from her face and jerked him till his come started spurting out beside her. She aimed it around her head as he bucked within her fist, spreading his seed as far across the canvas as she could.

They each pumped and stroked the other until they had wrung out their final releases and then collapsed in a heaving pile of sticky bliss.

When they finally rolled off the canvas, Severus looked down at the multi-coloured textures congealing on the surface.

“Isn’t that going to start to go off sometime soon?” he asked.

Hermione took out her wand. “Not with a preservation spell,” she said, casting the incantation that would prevent it from spoiling over time.

“So is this one for your personal collection or for sale?” he asked, putting his arm around her, drawing her to his side.

“I’m not sure. I might have a bit of a plan,” she said with an air of mystery. “I’ve enchanted the canvas so that it does something special. Watch.”

Suddenly, the canvas went completely blank.

 _Oops, something’s fucked up_.

But then he saw it, the first scarlet drips of raspberry juice, appearing in the centre, followed by raspberry pulp in a flickering arc. It was faster than real time, sped up by several fold so that it looked like a moving picture, growing and evolving. Smears of purple and small explosions of raspberry as food items were crushed and ground into the canvas, followed by bursts of mango, smears of strawberry, blueberry and custard, drizzles of chocolate, clouds of cream and sprays of come. And then it started all over again from blank.

“It’s like the moving photograph incantations but I developed this for paintings, especially ones where the creative process is far more interesting than the product.”

Hermione put her arm around Severus as they gazed at it, each internally re-living the acts that the images represented.

Finally, she tugged on his arm. “I think we’d better get cleaned up. My shower’s tiny but I think we’ll both fit if you can slot this,” she put her hand on his cock, “away somewhere.”

“I can slot that wherever you like,” Severus growled in her ear before she grinned and dragged him toward the stairs.

 

***

 

A month later, Professor McGonagall caught him whistling on his way out of the Potions laboratory.

“I must say, Severus, you’re looking very well these days.” The older woman looked up into his face.

He smiled in return. “I _am_ feeling well Minerva. It must be the Spring air.”

She gave him a curious look. “Yes, perhaps.”

He nodded to her and was about to take his leave when she said. “Have you seen our new purchase for the Dungeon corridor?”

He stopped. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Come this way.” She took him by the arm and led him further down the corridor to a large flat structure leaning against the wall, draped in a cloth.

“Mr Filch is about to mount it but it’s such a fascinating piece, I thought you should see it since you will likely pass it every day.”

With a flick of her wand, she dropped the sheet to show the art work. And for some reason he wasn’t surprised.

“We bought it from a gallery in London. Apparently it’s by a young up-and-coming artist.”

 _Oh, she’s up-and-coming alright_.

“I’ve had it in my office for the past few days and I just find myself watching it, mesmerised. You see there are all sorts of things that I’ve discovered.”

“See the little flowers blooming here.”

 _Raspberries being squashed by Hermione’s feet_.

“And this delightful shiny purple. It’s hard to believe that’s paint isn’t it?”

_That’s because it’s jelly._

“And then there are these glorious bursts of orange and red and blue that seem to spread out everywhere.”

_Yes, we’re rolling all over it._

“Oh and look there—it’s a type of bird.”

_That’s Hermione’s bum._

“And a snake.” She smiled and nodded at the canvas.

_My cock._

“But my favourite part is at the end—this beautiful waterfall effect.”

_Oh fuck._

“Genius really. Whomever she is.”

 _Yes, she is_.

“But, it has a slightly odd title.” She frowned, looking up at him.

“Oh, yes?”

“She’s called it ‘Grape Juice’.”

 

**Epiloguette**

Hermione and Severus spent two years perfecting their grape juice combination until they’d created the perfect blend. And the result, over subsequent years, was a handful of baby Granger-Snapes better known (thanks Oracle) as Baby Grapes.

 

**The End**

 

 


End file.
